Psyche
by Simply.Scarfy
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a forensic psychologist; a job where he can deduct to his hearts content. He is successful, despite his cold and detached approach, or perhaps because of it. He has studied many criminals in his time - but none quite like John Watson. JW/SH
1. Prologue

_A/N – My first Sherlock fic! Exciting things are happening you guys, I've revisited YAF, DM and its sequel and things are being planned. This fic is as and when and I don't want to commit to schedule (I've learnt that it makes writing even harder). I hope you all enjoyed. _

_No Beta._

**Prologue**

With barely disguised boredom, he looked down at the quivering wreck in front of him. He didn't feel pity – they were a criminal after all, but he didn't feel the societal obligatory disdain, anger etc. He knew he was good at his job, his ability to detach himself from all things emotional enabled him to become the completely unbiased onlooker. It made him able to question and explore, without the emotional fuel to hinder him. The man before him suddenly looked up, his mood shifting from distraught to malicious and angry within seconds. He suddenly started snarling and screaming at Sherlock, who just sat there, motionless. In the headpiece connected to his ear, Sherlock heard an exasperated voice.

"You are actually supposed to communicate you know. You're a forensic psychologist – you need to unpick and unravel! Not stand there like a fucking idiot." Lestrade whinged. Sherlock blinked slowly and uttered the first words he had said in the thirty five minutes of the meeting.

"You're angry with me." Sherlock said, simply.

The criminal opposite looked perplexed, temporarily thrown at the abrupt insertion from the formerly silent psychologist.

"You think you're clever, and you wanted me to probe and pry into your past life – your life before this prison. And then you hoped you could manipulate my words into a way in which could stand in your favour - just like you did with Ms Hooper." Sherlock carried on. He narrowed his pale eyes and cocked his head to the side. "You were not abused as a child," Sherlock sneered. He heard Lestrade's angry "Sherlock!" in his ear but ignored it and carried on. "You were the abuser. You hoped that with your extensive knowledge of the topic you would be able to formulate the correct reactions to memories people who had been abused had. It worked before, why wouldn't it work again?"

The criminal in front of him shook his head, angry and self-righteous. Sherlock allowed him a few moments to try

"You are a sadist. You enjoy inflicting pain." Sherlock gave the man the once over, "But it seems like you also like receive it. And yet you are still too ... _aware_ to be in a mental institute, you were hoping to pretend being hysteric so you could go into one. You've already visited prison – and enjoyed it. But something has happened that has made you reluctant to go back. No, not reluctant." Sherlock leaned forward "Terrified."

He then stood up and picked up his briefcase. The man sat opposite him was staring wide-eyed. He then stood up also. They regarded each other coldly.

"You said you didn't read my files."

"I didn't have to."

"Then how did you _know_?" The man whispered, in awe.

"You were brought up in Wiltshere, you have a slight tinge to your accent and yet you don't have a full fledged accent which suggests being brought up in the upper class. Judging by your accent you were also brought up in the more remote parts of Wiltshere. Your father died when you were a baby and your mother has MS, I saw her come in to visit you a few days ago – so the chance of you being abused are slim. You have a twin brother, who died in your teens, you have a tattoo commemorating him on your wrist. Also on your wrists are scars, self inflicted I believe judging by the slightly upward angle – deep and repetitive suggesting enjoyment." The criminal sat down, evidently reeling with shock.

"Extremely close to the tattoo of your brother's tattoo which tells me they are linked. When you were talking about abuse you adopted a slightly younger persona – leading me to believe you had witnessed it when you and the person it was inflicted on were younger. How do I know you were the inflicter of said abuse? The scars and tattoo are close like I said and therefore connected. However the self harm doesn't suggest regret as they are too deep, they suggest blame. Meaning you must've hurt him. You have scars on your knuckles, extremely faint. From punching someone? It seems likely. You have numerous charges for rape of young men who look similar to you. You killed your brother? How do I know? I read the papers and it was obvious, but the police didn't spot it." The man began to rock, sweating profusely.

"You've been to prison before because you have a broken ankle that hasn't healed properly judging by your limp – a typical initiation ritual from the 'Loyalty' gang." Sherlock said the name with contempt "You don't want to go back because you've snitched. You need money, your family is running out as your mother reminded you before – she has now converted to NHS care, isn't that right? You are a drug user, the bridge inbetween your nostrils is tiny, suggesting cocaine. You have snitched on someone in the prison in order to get money for drugs. They've been released – I know the warden you told, he told me he'd that the man had been taken care of – but we both know that he has friends a lot more loyal than you, don't we? Friends who are still in prison?"

The man was silently sobbing and Sherlock could hear Lestrade muttering in his ear _still _unbelieving.

"H-how?"

"Deduction."

Sherlock walked out and left the man who was surely on the verge of a mental breakdown (finally able to get submitted to that institution Sherlock thought drily) and Lestrade began clapping, but stopped when he saw Sherlock's face.

"What's wrong? That was amazing!"

"Hardly. Too much guess work. Something's wrong." Sherlock replied, and left leaving Lestrade to deal with the paperwork, as always.


	2. Two sugars and a dash of milk

_I couldn't help myself – I just had to write more! _

_**For those of you curious**__, a forensic psychologists job can range from piloting and implementing new treatment programmes to undertaking statistical analysis for prisoner profiling. I picture Sherlock being extremely hands on so doing the following: prisoner profiling, modifying offender behaviour, advising parole boards and mental health tribunals and crime analysis. FP's normally work (in the UK) for Her Majesty's prison service – I can imagine him doing freelance between the private and public sector, like his cases in the series, but having a predominant base in the public sector. _

_Sorry for the babbling :/_

Chapter One – Two sugars, a dash of milk.

"I don't know Donovan, he just got pissy. Isn't that what Sherlock does? He gets pissy! He reduced Howard to tears, proved he's mental, standard procedure let's forget and move on!"

"And whilst reducing the criminal to tears, he was trying to prove the man isn't mental! I know you don't give a shit about Sherlock, but if he says something's wrong as his colleagues at the very least it's in our interests to listen to him! I mean, I think he's absolutely brilliant, but that whole meet just didn't quite come to the conclusion it always does!"

"The man has got to be mental if he did what Sherlock deduced! No sane person could do that. But I'm not going to get into an argument over ethics! Or Sherlock for that matter. He knows what he's doing! In fact, he's on his way into work now to write his report on Howard so don't you worry, okay? He's absolutely fine!"

Sally shook her head, frustration causing her teeth to grit. "I tell you what, Anderson. If there is something wrong with him, and we took too long to help – after I've finished blaming myself, all that blame is being transferred onto you!"

The other man rolled his eyes and was about to speak but before he could, Sherlock, in all his trench coat flaring brilliance glided into the staff room, straight to the kettle.

"If you are trying to be discreet you are failing miserably," Sherlock uttered tartly. Sally put her head in her hand, stress holding her taut like a bow.

"We're worried about you, because you're worried about yourself Sherlock." She sighed, looking at him beseechingly.

He looked up from putting his earl grey tea bag into his posh bone china tea cup. "Well, don't," he said with an insincere smiled plastered on his face. Fake as it was, clearly Sally took comfort in it because she smiled warmly back. "I'm fine. I had a headache last night. Dehydration." He turned his back and went to fetch the milk from the mini fridge.

"Two sugars and a dash of milk please Sherlock, if you're making tea!" Anderson called from reclining on the sofa happily.

Sherlock snorted and walked out, carrying his cup and saucer in one hand and briefcase in the other.

"See," Anderson grinned smugly, "Fine!"

Sally growled and stormed out, back to her office.

Sherlock sat in his office for a good while pondering which direction to take this man's future. In a secure prison, or a mental institute? Despite his lack of understanding of emotion etc., he was surprisingly good with ethics. If he were to consider this from a medical point of view, the man was clearly slightly unhinged – as most of the sadist/masochist types were, and surely that should warrant medical attention? He's sick; he needs to be treated as such. But, he was just too _aware _of that fact that he could pull that look off, which made Sherlock hesitate. And hesitation was something that made Sherlock uncomfortable. Then he could look at it from a politician's point of view; the man was a danger to society, not vulnerable _enough _to be given "preferential treatment" – and that was what mental institutions meant to many people. They generally had never been to one. But, with the knowledge that no matter how secure the prison was, there was always going to be a crack in the armour, a mutual link between Howard and the person he betrayed – Sherlock was veering towards Mental Institutions. Let the man be driven truly insane by the insane – he was halfway there already. Sherlock just hoped that this option was the lesser of the two evils.

In truth, Sherlock found this whole case boring. Incredibly important of course – the man had domestic abuses charges and battery – but for Sherlock's incredible mind it wasn't stimulating enough.

So with a sigh, Sherlock began to type the tiresome report, trying to be as honest as he could, whilst hinting that the man should be considered as Mentally Vulnerable and this needs to be considered as such when his punishment was being debated.

He was around two thousand words in when a knock sounded at his door. Just by the hesitation after the second and before the third – it was Lestrade. He always felt awkward interrupting Sherlock whilst he was working.

"Come in," he called. Shutting his laptop and adopting an easy going posture. It was uncomfortable for him to say the least, but he always felt that he should make an effort with Lestrade.

The man entered and looked haggard. Sherlock piqued an eyebrow in interest. There were deep grooves on the skin under Lestrade's watch, it hadn't been taken off in the last twenty four hours – so lack of sleep. But judging by the stiffness of movement he had managed to get ... an hour or so of rest in the early hours of this morning.

He was also clutching a takeaway cup of coffee and moaning about lack of sleep, so that could be an indicator.

"Sherlock! I have a newbie for you. It's a woman this time – you always seem to prefer men but I think this one might be different!" Lestrade said with an irritating wink.

"I prefer men because they don't cry all over my office, take longer to unravel and don't constantly blame their crime or crimes on their menstruation cycle." Sherlock said in a monotone. He knew how the staff at his workplace liked to gossip about his orientation – in fact completely about his love life and as a counter he resolutely kept his private life exactly that, private.

"Well, anyway! She doesn't talk so good luck!" Lestrade said and leapt to the door. Once there he called behind him "Anderson's bringing her to you in ten!"

"What do you mean she doesn't talk! Lestrade!" Sherlock called, annoyed beyond measure. Trust his superior to do something this cheeky.

He reopened his laptop and began tapping out the conclusion viciously. Fuck you Lestrade whirled in his mind as he stabbed at the keyboard. Just as he was finishing his second to last concluding sentence the door opened and in walked a girl followed by Anderson.

She was brutally thin, almost skeletal and her eyes were huge and the palest blue. Her clothes swallowed her and she looked ... well, high. Sherlock was well acquainted with drug addicts, but she looked like she was on a drug Sherlock had never witnessed the effects of before. Probably some new American crystal rubbish.

"Please, take a seat." He requested smoothly. She did not startle at his voice, but moved her head to gaze at him. Almost as soon as she laid eyes on him, she averted her gaze towards the chairs he gestured to, and made her way there. Her hair was long and trailed down her back in unkempt, wispy strands. It looked as if it was on the verge of all of it coming out.

Once sat down Anderson undid her handcuffs and made it so her hands were in front of her and did them up again. They were immediately clasped. Sherlock noted, disgusted, that her nails were horrendously long – like talons almost.

Anderson handed Sherlock her file, nodded briefly and took his leave.

For five minutes they sat in silence, Sherlock looking brazenly at her – in no sexual way - but pure curiosity. Like she was a puzzle in a thousand pieces and he was about to start putting them together. Knowing that he was probably going to have to start conversation he began.

"I'm Dr Sherlock Holmes. What is your name?" He asked robotically, yet polite.

She looked swiftly at the file and away again, but the look was so quick, it couldn't have been more direct.

"I don't like to approach things that way," he replied simply. And it was the truth; he hated how he was expected to read this short and often inaccurate biography about a person when they knew nothing about him. It didn't seem right. That and the fact that he could usually surmise all that was in that booklet from a single look.

She looked at him, straight into his eyes - and didn't stray from them. After a moment or two – she changed visibly before his eyes. Like an actress after "Cut" has been called, she seemed to morph into her truth self. Her body language changed from a mixture of lethargic and disoriented to excited and eager in one smooth movement. Her eyes gained a curious gleam and she cocked her head to the side.

"But isn't that protocol?" She asked brightly. Sherlock, who had remained outwardly unmoved by this morphing replied in exactly his previous cold, efficient tone.

"Protocol is dull,"

Her eyes flared slightly, "Oh I so agree! Rules are dull. But, I guess that way of thinking got me here, didn't it?"

"You tell me,"

"Now now,_ Doctor _Holmes – that is not fun! Not fun at all!" She pouted teasingly and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I bet you're thinking I'm one of the crazies aren't you?" She asked leaning forward even more. "I'm not. I'm enthusiastic about life!" She raised her bound hands upwards with enthusiasm. "So many people are so afraid to _live_ and it drives me crazy!" She bit her lip, "Wrong phrasing, quite contradictory. What I mean is, I'm here because I chose to _live_, do you know what it means to _live_?" She asked him, reclining and losing some her manic glee, but not all.

Sherlock considered this question for a moment, "I believe that 'living' has a different meaning for each individual, like how the perception of love differs from person to person. It depends on the individual,"

"Every body's interpretation is unique?" She nodded, mulling this over. "But do you truly believe that, or did you just come up with that to placate me?"

Sherlock wondered briefly how he'd managed to get himself into such an intense topic that was entirely unrelated to his work in such a short space of time. "Both. What do you believe it is to live?" he asked. Normally he would have been uncaring about someone else's opinion, especially someone as pretentiously eccentric as the woman in front of him.

"Look in that folder, and you'll find out."

"Earlier on you were agreeing with me that protocol is dull and now you are urging me to follow it?"

"Only because I believe you have that not following that part of protocol as a rule for yourself. Rules were made to be broken Mr Holmes," She quirked an eyebrow.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. To open the folder would do as she wished but not to would also be doing the same thing. He was in a lose-lose scenario. Time to avoid the subject, move on – in a bold, abrupt, throwing manner.

"Why did you throw up your breakfast this morning?" He asked. She raised both eyebrows and looked momentarily impressed.

"You know, I got the impression from your reputation that you were most assuredly not a people person – and yet your record is so impeccable. But that just reminded me."

"You're avoiding the question,"

"And you avoided our previous topic of conversation but you don't see me calling you out now, do you?"

"As delighting as this quick witted conversation is," Sherlock's tone implied quite the contradictory. "One part of protocol I do follow is the amount of time per patient per day. Yours is quite nearly up, and we have gotten nowhere." _On the surface, _he thought.

"But the thing is, Doctor, I don't intend on getting out of this particular institution for some time. So you may be seeing more of me then you previously intended to,"

"Why aren't you leaving soon?"

"I have plans. And certain actions need to be carried out before those plans can be put into action. So I'm in a kind of ... limbo, as it were. And you are enabling it to be waiting out quite pleasantly,"

Without hesitation, Sherlock asked again, "Why didn't you eat your breakfast this morning?"

She did another absurd pout, and looked at the wall, saying with a surly tone "No interest in my actual exciting life, just my eating habit." She said to herself "That's what my mother used to be like,"

Before Sherlock could catch himself, he asked "Past tense. What's happened to your mother?"

She looked at him and a strange grin played around her lips. "I killed her."

Before he could utter another word, Anderson's loud, obnoxious knock filled the room. He turned and called for him to come in. When he turned back – Meth head was back.

"Get anywhere?" Anderson asked politely.

Sherlock watched as she got up and dragged her feet out of the office, "Not far enough."

When she'd left he looked at her file, sitting there temptingly. It said her name in thick bold letters.

**IRENE ADLER**

_A/N – This is definitely JohnLock, not Irene/Sherlock – she's just important for later chapters (I think, I have noooo idea where this story is heading!) _

_Review?_


	3. Chai vs Earl Grey

_A/N – Not betaed, any mistakes are mine! You guys, just a mini-moan – physics is so interesting but fucking impossible sometimes. _

_Enjoy!_

Chapter Two – Chai vs. Earl Grey

Sherlock had thrown the Irene folder into one of his filing cabinets and locked it behind him. She was ... so very interesting. Predictable and yet surprising. She seemed to be the type of person who knew a lot about a lot but did stupid things with the information because she delighted in pissing someone off. Oddly enough, Sherlock could relate to that. When he could tell that one of Anderson's conquests had gotten bored before the information had been given to Anderson, he told him – and revelled in the other mans anger. And that had nothing to do with the fact that Sally, who Sherlock cared about on a very shallow level, was very much in love with Anderson. Not at all.

The urge to open her folder and explore all of her that had already been revealed was oh so tempting - but Sherlock had put on a nicotine patch and resisted. He'd then chucked the sodding folder in the cabinet and went out for a cigarette. Whilst out there, he saw one of those horrible vans drawing up. One of those vans for the transportation of criminals.

Now Sherlock wasn't one of those people who had any particularly strong feelings about criminals. He was incredibly neutral. And that was good with his job. He didn't care whether they went to prison or to bloody Las Vegas – he just wanted to know _why_. And he almost always found out why. Apart from one case.

You see, the interesting thing with criminals is that no matter how awful and unspeakable the crime – they are still human. Yes, hysterical mothers and emotionally wounded relatives and friends could argue that someone who could rape a child is not a human, they are a monster. And Sherlock could absolutely understand where they were coming from. It was completely wrong. But there was no denying the fact that they had flesh, bones, lungs, hearts, brains, eyeballs, genitalia. On the outside and on the inside they had the same basic blueprint of a human. But somehow, in the making of them as a person to the point where Sherlock met them – things had gone wrong, in society's opinion. Or maybe for that particular person – things had gone according to plan. And Sherlock wasn't thinking about perfectly orchestrated murders (because in his opinion there was no such thing) but maybe some people were just meant to be criminals. The world was never meant to be perfect, and with all the amazing incredible things that were being done each day – surely there had to be its opposite? Sherlock thought that crime was necessary, and that it was natural. And utterly fascinating. Unfortunately after his Failed Case, Mycroft had banned him from dealing with the _real _criminals. The ones who do it for the intense pleasure of it. The psychopaths. So Sherlock was reduced to working with petty thieves who'd had bad role models when they were younger. Or rapists who had hated women ever since their mother had left them with their abusive fathers or what have you. Because they all had a pattern. And one you'd spotted that nth term things became boring. That was why psychopaths were incredible – you don't know what they're going to be like, or their perceptions of the world. They are _new _in a world of archaic.

Sherlock was just about to take out another cigarette when his mobile began ringing. Without bothering to check who it was, Sherlock answered it.

"Sherly? SHERLY! Oh how do you get this fecking thing to work!"

"Mrs Hudson, I can hear you just fine, you don't need to shout."

"Oh good Sherly you're there!"

"How many times have I asked you to not call me that?"

"When are you going to realise I'm never going to stop?! Anyways deary, I just wanted you to know that I'm making beef stew for dinner tonight so if you want some, you need to get home at about seven, okay love?"

Sherlock sighed, "Mrs Hudson I don't need-"

"Oh shush! When I was ironing your shirt this morning I could see your ribs! I'm cooking you dinner tonight young man and I know my stew is bloody good so you better be home on time, alright?"

"Yes, fine."

"Alright, you have a nice day now!"

"You too,"

"Bye! BYE! Oh how I end the blooming call! This piece of-"

Sherlock quickly pressed the red bar and ended the call with relief. As much as he loved Mrs Hudson, she was a handful and a half. Of course he had seen her notice his protruding ribs but he hadn't anticipated her reacting this quickly. He was getting softer.

Rather than take out another cigarette, he turned and went back into the warm building, the cold getting to him now that he was over that rush of nicotine.

As he walked in, he saw hear Lestrade hurry to catch up with him. He was struggling with a large bundle of files – Sherlock didn't understand why the man just didn't stick to emailing so instead of offering to help him out he just walked faster.

"Adler's a good'un, isn't she?" Lestrade grinned.

"Depends what your definition of 'good' is, Lestrade," Sherlock replied promptly.

"Well, she's interesting isn't she? Did you read her file? Unbelievable, I just-"

"Stop, Lestrade. You know how I feel about those goddamned files,"

"Sherlock! I can't believe you're still not reading them. When we have an inspection-"

"When we have an inspection I will explain my methods and unless he's a bumbling fool like you lot, he will understand and appreciate."

"You're fucking impossible, you know that?"

"I have been told," Sherlock replied, turning right and away from Lestrade.

He found himself venturing back into the staff room, where he knew they were all soon to be sat there convening for one of their unofficial breaks.

When he got in there, he found Donovan and Anderson on opposite sides of the room. Judging by the blush on her face and displacement of lipstick, and the slight pink on his out of place collar – they had just been kissing. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Anderson, when are you going to pull yourself together?" He asked, placing his coat on the rack near the door and sitting on one of the plush leather sofa's.

"Excuse me? What kind of a question is that?" Anderson replied, indignant.

"Don't answer that Sherlock," Sally quickly intercepted before they could begin an argument and waste even more of her time. She went to Sherlock and sat down next to him, whilst Anderson leant against the counter, scowling.

After Sally's failed attempts to engage Sherlock in conversation, he opened his briefcase and took out his laptop. After firing it up, he check his emails and could feel himself die a little bit internally when he saw one was from his brother.

_**Sherlock,**_

_**It's been too long since I last saw you brother. I have a proposition that I'd like to give to you.**_

_**Meet me for coffee at the Starbucks at the end of Muller Road at4.30pm.**_

_**Don't be late. **_

_**-MH**_

With a scowl Sherlock tapped out ferociously.

_**Mycroft,**_

_**Am supposed to be having dinner with Mrs Hudson, can't make 4.30.**_

_**SH**_

Almost instantly he got a reply.

_**Sherlock,**_

_**I've have already check with Mrs Hudson, she said she shall be serving at six.**_

_**See you soon.**_

_**-MH**_

Sherlock felt his scowl deepen and he abruptly left the room, too furious to apologise about knocking Anderson's scalding hot drink over him as he got up. Served the man right, promiscuity never bought you good luck.

He got back to his office, enjoying the quiet, dark solitude it provided. Anderson bought in a few more of the sentenced for analysis and of course the unspoken part of his job – finding out more information on the gang they belonged to.

It was first a drug addict who couldn't stop with just dealing, then a boring bland thug. Last it was been a paedophile, Sherlock always found them the most interesting but it was not enough compensation for the two hours of idiots before him. He wished he could get back to the real criminals.

Sherlock felt irritation crawling under his skin. He checked his watch and decided to pack up for the day – if he left now, he could be fashionably late for Mycroft.

After smoking two cigarettes he hailed a cab and got to Mycroft, who was sat at a window table. Sherlock knew something must be serious then, as Mycroft had the motto of 'hiding in plain sight'. To sit in a dark, private corner would be suggesting they were talking about dark, private things.

Sherlock went to the counter first and ordered a cup of earl grey. After nodding over his shoulder to where he was sitting, he walked over.

Mycroft put his newspaper down and removed his glasses slowly. They had left a deep slightly pink groove on the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock peered over the table. "Chai. Exotic, Mycroft,"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "I was feeling spontaneous. But, my choice of tea and your reversion back to cigarettes and the neglect of patches is not what we came here to talk about."

"No, we didn't. Would you like to begin, or you going to sit here trying to prove your superior intelligence for the next millennia?"

"Very funny." Mycroft replied monotonously. "I'm here because despite that disaster you had a few years back, we need you again."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously, "We?"

"Her majesty the queen, and I. We have a very high profile case. I say high profile. The man is ... average. Hardly a criminal. But if the public receive understanding of his crime, there will be uproar. So we're saying he's injured. He will need counselling."

Sherlock groaned. "No, Mycroft. I deal with criminals. I unpick the most convoluted of minds. I am NOT wasting my time with some wimp," Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head resolutely.

"Sherlock, this man served for our country-"

"I am _not _a counsellor Mycroft. I don't like feelings. This is why I am at this end of the work I'm in. _Victims _need counselling,"

The woman brought over Sherlock's beverage with a timid smile and mercifully disappeared again without asking any of the inane regular questions.

"Sherlock, you misinterpret what you do then. Aren't criminals victims to their own selfish desires?"

"If you think of victims that way, every human is a victim,"

"Sherlock, I do not wish to get into a debate over situation ethics. This man needs your help. You have a lot to gain from each other. His mind is severely damaged over what has occurred and I am trusting you to attempt to make things better. To place the puzzle pieces into their rightful places, if you will."

Mycroft opened his own briefcase and took a plain white sheet enclosed in an open beige envelope. He slid it over the table to Sherlock, who looked away and out of the window.

"I don't read the paperwork." He said through gritted teeth.

Mycroft nodded graciously. "I will have him sent to you. He will require two hour meetings per day."

Sherlock nodded and stood up, eager to leave his brother's insufferable presence. His tea remained untouched.

"Sherlock?" The other man stilled under the call, "His name is John Watson."

_A/N – Yeeeaahh buddy! I hope I got Mycroft right, he is a hard character to write! _

_Also I would love to get on this tumblr bandwagon that Sherlock seems to be so popular on! Anyone know how?_

_Review!_


	4. Scarlet Envelope

**A\N ~ it's the dreaded holiday. All family is home. Save. Me. **

**Short chapter because it's all I could manage I'm afraid. Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and I shall hopefully update before New Year!**

Sherlock waited anxiously as Mrs Hudson bustled through his kitchen. There was a scarlet envelope on his desk and he wanted to go and inspect but Mrs Hudson wasn't letting him leave the table. She sighed as he fidgeted.

"Look Sherlock, I know you want to get on with your work but you are skin and bones! Have a nice big helping of stew. And for afters I made toffee pudding. Oh, and there's mince pies! Must be getting in the Christmas spirit now, only a few days to go!"

Sherlock scowled and rolled his eyes. He detested Christmas. He was forced to eat food that he didn't like, listening to average people moan about their average lives – pretend to care about people he couldn't care less about. It was all very exhausting. Especially as after they had met up Mycroft had emailed him:

_**Sherlock,**_

_**Anthea and I are to be dining at yours this Christmas. Presents are to be exchanged so make an effort to actually buy some - for once in your life.**_

_**JW is to be your last appointment of tomorrow, you're going to be at work late. **_

_**Be careful of Adler. **_

_**MH**_

There was far too much familiarity and worry in there to be normal for Mycroft – Sherlock assumed his latest plaything, Genevieve was getting to him. He was unsurprised it was Anthea and not his spouse to be coming to his house – Mycroft loved being eccentric.

Also, what was he to buy? He didn't care about Mycroft. Maybe he should buy him diabetic chocolate as a not so subtle dig at his rapid weight gain round the middle and a reminder of their grandfather's health ailment. As for Anthea, a voucher perhaps? For a spa day or something equally mundane. Better make it too so she can invite the girlfriend Sherlock knows she has.

And as for Mrs Hudson... Well, little known to her, Sherlock always put a healthy lump of money in her bank account. She was convinced it was her old job giving her her Christmas bonus by mistake. But now he had to give her something she could actually open under a meaningless tree. How ridiculous the tradition was. Maybe a set of brand new knives ... He was sure she'd like that. Well, they all better anyway, as Sherlock wasn't going to get the anything different or more.

After scalding his mouth gulping down the thick stew (which was really rather good, and his nod of appreciation told Mrs Hudson so) he went to his bedroom and played some Beethoven until his fingers cramped. He had looked at the envelope briefly, after noting it had those dreaded initials on it he threw it in the fire. He was done with that man, he did not need updates.

The next morning Sherlock woke late. He'd stayed up typing out more reports last night, and had glared at that damn envelope's ashes before falling into a fitful sleep. Well, he said sleep. Sherlock rarely slept in the general meaning of the word. He mostly rested his eyes and body and allowed his mind to run wild. And his mind last night had explored every crevice of his Palace for a John Watson. But only came up with useless trivia. He had drudged up information and his mind felt cluttered, leaving him irritable and snappish. But, he had left the room which held all of the information that the scarlet envelope related to.

He left the house quickly, ignoring Mrs Hudson's shout of "Breakfast Sherlock!" and got a cab to his work. Normally he would walk and it probably would've done him some good, he was completely agitated but he had Adler first thing – and he felt that if he were to be late, she would refuse to make up the time. Time was something Sherlock had little of and desired greatly.

When he reached his office, further ignoring Lestrade and Donovan – he was confronted with Anderson and Adler in his office; they were sat in an uncomfortable silence. Anderson was visibly relieved to see him arrive. Adler was sat examining her horrendously long nails. Occasionally she would scrape them against her arm, leaving rose coloured raised lines.

"Haven't been here long, I hope?" Sherlock asked, managing to colour his voice efficiently with the appropriate concern.

Anderson glared, knowing by now that as genuine as Sherlock seemed at times – he was always false. "Long enough." The other man sighed and stormed out. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Upsetting Anderson? How very uncouth,"

Immediately she became unnervingly animated, "_He _is uncouth. My god, I have never met another person who just seeps irritating quite like that man." She sighed dramatically and flung herself backwards, slouching seemingly uncomfortably in her chair. "It's Christmas soon," she said softly, almost miserably.

"Indeed. You celebrate it?" Sherlock replied, settling in to his chair and facing her with his legs crossed at the ankle under his desk, and leant forward in his seat. The epitome of polite curiosity.

"Christmas was ... big in my house as a child." She replied slowly.

"Were your parents religious?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing. He had learnt that in some cases appearing interested gained trust – that was with the Attention Seekers, the extroverts.

Adler snorted in reply. She refused to meet his eyes and her foot kept an insistent tapping noise.

"Were yours?" She asked after a moment, glad to have flipped it so she had some modicum of control in the conversation.

"We're not here to talk about me," Sherlock replied stiffly. "Your constant shifting suggests agitation, or impatience. Perhaps, a combination of both. You are avoiding my eyes which implies you are withholding information from me. Your eyes are flicking in rapid succession between the door, the clock, and the window – you are waiting and wanting to escape, you keep raking your fingers on your arm-"

"_Stop!" _Irene interrupted, hyperventilating violently.

"You have eaten and not thrown it up yet." Sherlock sat back in his seat, satisfied. Irene's eyes held a manic gleam and he absolutely refused to meet his eyes and instead stared at the clock on the wall behind Sherlock above him. "You haven't always had an eating disorder, but you lapse into it when you feel you have lost control, or power. You do it when you are being detained."

Finally, her pale eyes reached his, and they narrowed viciously. "Fuck you. You- you just don't-"

"What? Understand?" Sherlock scoffed.

"You don't! You-"

"Do _not_ tell me what I do and don't understand." Sherlock uttered coldly. "I know more than you about every topic you delude yourself into thinking you excel in. I am-"

"A prick!" She replied bluntly. "And you may know more about a great many number of things than I do, but you don't know _me. _Not at all."

"One look in your folder and I-"

"Do not insult you and I by completing that sentence. Especially after that outburst about how brilliant you are. You may acknowledge facts but you will _never _understand emotion. You're a sociopath. You – YOU-" She could not seem to even articulate her emotions further. She shook her head and began to cry softly. Sherlock grimaced, look at her with distaste and press the button under his desk that summoned Anderson.

The man came swiftly, and seemed amazed at Adler doing more than just stare benignly into space. He looked at Holmes, puzzled, but the other man just shrugged – his expression had fallen into disinterest as soon as Anderson had entered.

Anderson shuffled her out of the room, and Sherlock sighed. Now, it was assessing until this mysterious John Watson.

**A/N ~ **

**Oh how I sometimes hate my family *sighs***

**Make my day and review please? **


	5. Secret Smiles and Trembling Hands

**A/N ~ Inspiration for this chapter is the songs Secret Smile by Semisonic. Don't own obviously. **

**Floored that people are following and favouriting and reviewing and let me tell you; it means the world.**

**Also, this was ****_hard _****to write and will almost certainly be rewritten. So think of it as a rough draft of sorts. **

**_John_**

John Watson looked down at his hands. They had always, always been so incredibly steady. When holding a gun aiming at a man's head which unwavering certainty that it would kill there was no tremor. When removing shrapnel from another man's face mere inches away from his eyes, there had been no shake. Steady. Always.

Even now, when he could feel his heart thumping in his throat in a lurching rhythm, he could look down and feel safe in the knowledge, that whilst everything around him was moving at a speed he couldn't control – whilst everything was swirling, free-falling, collapsing around him – his hands were there. Steady.

He looked around him. This was a prison, no matter how comfortable it looked. A single bed, with white cotton sheets, a full length mirror he detested to look at. A white porcelain skin, a chest of drawers and a bedside table, empty but for a white lamp. Plain, sterile, clean.

He didn't want to be there, he needed to go back, and he wasn't ready to be surrounded by people like this. He just wanted to be surrounded by sand, on edge, ready to save at a moment's notice. He wanted to save. He never, ever wanted to kill. But it was precisely that which had caused him to be yanked out of that unsafe haven.

"John Watson?" A man's gruff voice sounded outside and he stood up from perching on the made bed. He cleared his throat and the man entered, in pale blue uniform which included a name badge that read 'Anderson'. The man was looking at him with barely hidden curiosity and confusion. Clearly he had no idea why John was there. That comforted the army doctor. Not because he delighted in being mysterious, but because he could hardly handle the knowledge himself – he didn't want other people to know and perhaps comprehend about that when he wasn't there yet himself.

He'd been taken there the week previously and told by a man called Lestrade that on this day, he would be meeting a psychologist in order to discuss what had happened. A concept that filled him with dread. He wasn't ready yet.

**_Sherlock_**

Sherlock drummed his fingers repeatedly on his desk, waiting. He was incredibly impatient – the opposite to Mycroft who seemed to have the thing in excess. Except, he seemed to lose it incredibly quickly when matters he dabbled in concerned Sherlock.

Finally, he saw the pale blue blur of Anderson walk past his window and almost a second later, a knock sounded. He adopted a relaxed pose and told him to enter.

The patient, John Watson, was the first to enter, and Sherlock's gaze took everything in – didn't waver from the man even when Anderson spoke to him. He gestured for the man to leave and observed as John took everything of the room in. Primarily, Sherlock noticed, for escape routes and whether or not Sherlock was armed.

Sherlock blinked at the sheer amount of data that flooded into his consciousness. Shaking his head slightly, he blocked (something he hadn't had to do since Moriarty) and focussed on the other man's face. His cornflower blue eyes had crinkled at the edges and Sherlock noticed he had a nervous smile playing around his thin lips. Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"It says on your door that you're a forensic psychologist, Mr. Holmes," John Watson's voice was unique, not deep – and yet not high. Melodic in its own right.

"Correct, Dr Watson." Sherlock replied. The other man seemed to wince at the use of his title, Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"John, please. I guess that makes me a criminal then, huh?" John replied, another fake smile.

Sherlock's head bowed minutely, "Sherlock. It makes you a criminal, or psychologically impaired," A small part of the taller man was glad John had insisted on first names – being called Mr Holmes reminded him of Mycroft.

John chuckled slightly, "Fancy words for insane," he mumbled under his breath.

"It is getting rather hard to keep up with what terminology is politically correct. We aren't allowed to use 'mental' anymore," Sherlock allowed a tight smile at the louder, more genuine incredulous chuckle John emitted at that. Then, as his eyes caught sight of the folder, his face abruptly changed to weary.

"That's my file," he stated.

Sherlock nodded needlessly.

John frowned slightly, "What do you think?" he asked, curious and slightly disbelieving at the question.

"I don't think anything, I haven't read it." Sherlock replied.

John's face dissolved into confusion, then he seemed joyous. Sherlock's finger twitched at the expression. The man was very expressive with his face. His body, not so much. He maintained a tight, defensive posture and it seemed he didn't even notice.

"You haven't?"

"I just said that I haven't."

"I know but- wow. You haven't. Thank you," John said sincerely.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised. He had _never _received a thank you for not reading someone's files. "You're welcome," he paused, waiting for the inevitable –

"Why haven't you read it?" John asked, shifting closer, eyes still intent on the beige envelope.

"I prefer to-"

"Can I read it?"

Momentarily thrown by the question, Sherlock paused. It was highly unprofessional, but there was something about this man, that told Sherlock he could be trusted.

"Yes,"

John looked shocked, but quickly scooped up the file. He opened the first page, gagged, and put it back on the table immediately, his gaze now anywhere but near it. Sherlock leaned forward with interest. John began shaking his head, a sweat beading on his brow. He swallowed numerous times but eventually composed himself. He flushed with what Sherlock presumed was embarrassment.

"I-I'm not ready to talk about what happened."

Sherlock's hopes dropped instantly. So much for an interesting case.

"Ah."

"I'm s-sorry. I just-. No. I can't,"

Sherlock leant back in his chair, head tipping up to look at the ceiling, a pressure building above behind his forehead.

"You're going to continue to have to see me, whether you're ready to talk about it or not."

"Why don't you read the folders?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at the repeated question and answered before he could be interrupted. Again.

"I find it an abuse of power to have access to all this information, when you have nothing in return."

"That's-"

"Plus I can always deduce what is in the folder before the other person had even said a word,"

"I'm sorry – deduce?"

Sherlock took a deep breath.

**_John_**

John watched as the other man launched into an explanation on how he could, for instance, tell someone's sexual preference by their hands and how he could tell a serial killer from a paedophile by their smell. Apparently Lesbians had short fingernails and a paedophile was more likely to have B.O than a serial killer.

John listened, entranced, and once whispered, "Remarkable,"

The psychologist stopped and cocked his head.

"Unusual reaction,"

"How do people normally react?"

"Elevated heart rate, increased perspiration production, narrowed eyes and a 'fuck off freak'," the man behind the desk scoffed piteously and rolled his eyes yet again.

"I think that it's truly incredible." John said earnestly. Again, John was under assault from that beautiful pale stare. But rather than shift, he looked plainly back, a small smile on his lips. "Anything else you deduce apart from people?"

John smiled widely as the man began to relay many cases he had solved with his deductions.

**_Sherlock _**

Sherlock shook his head in amusement as he looked over to John who was laughing so hard tears were forming in his eyes. He'd just told the other man one of his more ... explicit deductions that he'd observed of Anderson and how his relaying of the information had resulted in a brawl between the two wherein Anderson had ended up in quarantine after falling into one of Sherlock's more questionable experiments back at his flat.

It was odd, for him, to have someone who laughed _with_ him at the _expense of others_ and listened without a malicious, mocking or jealous tinge to their expression. John genuinely seemed to delight in Sherlock's stories and the whole concept of this was foreign for the other man. Their shared laughter was interrupted when Anderson knocked on the door. John erupted into another small bout of chuckles and Sherlock called for him to enter.

Anderson's eyes were wide and he looked incredibly nervous as he entered, looking uncertainly first at John, then Sherlock.

"Ah, Anderson, come to take John away?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yeah," Anderson tittered nervously.

John smiled at Sherlock and went over to his desk. Anderson took a step forward, but relaxed fractionally when he saw John was only holding out his hand, waiting for Sherlock to accept it.

Sherlock stood up and gripped the hand strongly, a small smile on his lips and Anderson felt like he was going to die because Sherlock was SMILING and was WILLINGLY MAKING CONTACT WITH OTHER HUMANS and were ALIENS GOING TO LAND ON EARTH AND END ALL WARS?

Sherlock turned away before it could become uncomfortable and began to get his laptop out.

"If you're quite finished gawping Anderson, John's hungry." The man uttered, not looking at either of them.

Anderson guided John and his lightly growling stomach out with an utterly shell shocked expression.

**_John _**

"You okay Anderson?"

"You don't understand. You really don't understand. I thought that man didn't even know how to shake hands or- or how to _smile_ and now all of a sudden he's doing _normal things _and I just – wow."

John looked down at his trembling hands and smiled a secret smile, that was now to be reserved for moments after or during being with Sherlock Holmes.

**A/N ~ okay so can we just. Dude. **

**NEW SHERLOCK WAS FECKIN AWESOME AND I DIED AND CRIED AND LAUGHED AND THE WORLD SEEMS LIKE A BETTER PLACE. **

**Okay. Okay. I'm good.**

**_Did you know? Sherlock's parents are actually Benedict's parent's IRL! And Mary is actually Martin's wife IRL! _**

**I don't like Mary. Nu-uh.**

**JOHNLOCK FOREVER!**

**Review?**


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